


The Wasp and the Bee

by casparm



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Holmes Brothers' Childhood, Kid Fic, Kidlock, Mycroft-centric, rated mature for future chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-01-19 14:54:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1473865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casparm/pseuds/casparm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look into the childhood of Mycroft and Sherlock. Disputes and problems were frequent, but even more frequent were their moments of undeniable brotherly love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've always loved insights into Mycroft and Sherlock's childhood together. Let's face it - they would have made a dream team. 
> 
> As they get older the complications will get darker so that's when the mature rating will be more relevant. I'll also tag appropriately when I get to certain bits. 
> 
> Any suggestions would be greatly appreciated!

When Mycroft Holmes was seven years and four months old his nanny informed him that they would have to travel to the hospital to see Mummy and his new baby brother. Mycroft, agitated by the interruption to his reading (a book on pregnancy and baby care that he had found in his parents' room), reluctantly agreed to go along if not just to see Mummy again, whom he was sad to see leave in so much pain. Mycroft pulled each arm into his coat and buttoned it up to the top before slipping his book tightly under his arm and heading downstairs to find his nanny waiting by the door with an outstretched hand. He deliberately avoided taking her hand and strode out the door towards the car waiting beyond the gate, not missing the slight sigh escaping her lips. _Exasperated. Same tone and volume as the last time I did something unusual for my age_ thought Mycroft as he climbed into the car, thanking the driver holding the door as he went. He angled his body towards the window both to ignore the nanny and to clear his mind in preparation for his new brother. Mycroft would not admit it to anyone, but he was excited for the baby. It gave him a warm feeling in his chest to think that after seven years of loneliness he might have some company in the long, draughty halls of the Holmes Estate.

 

After a quiet journey with only the constant rhythm of the tyres turning against the asphalt of the road, the car finally pulled to a stop and the engine was switched off. The driver came around to open the door and Mycroft wriggled out as quickly as possible. The anticipation was welling up inside of him and he almost jumped out of his skin when the nanny grasped his hand in hers. He angrily pulled his hand from her grasp and she sighed again while telling him to “just stick close by”.

“I’m not an imbecile, Vera,” Mycroft shot at her.

“I _know_ , Mycroft,” she replied. “Oh, how I know.”

He chose to ignore the muttered addendum and walked stiffly beside her, cautious not to make contact.

 

The private hospital walls were adorned with various pieces of cheap art that would not even approach the price of Mycroft’s favourite artworks on the walls at home. As they walked past doors to different rooms (the hospital didn’t have anything as common as wards) Mycroft peered into the open ones and tried to determine what the patients were being treated for. Although the pace was quick and he was still training his deductive eye, he was able to determine that one man had broken his leg when he had tripped running for the bus to work, and another had suffered a concussion when he had fainted and hit the ground. Mycroft was irritated to admit that he could not determine _why_ the latter had fainted in the short glimpse he had into the room. Though before he was able to dwell on this failing on his behalf, he was face to face with the huge grey-blue eyes of a small baby.

 

Mycroft held his breath and wiped his palms on his trousers to dry off the anxious perspiration that had accumulated on the journey. Mummy smiled tiredly at her two sons and introduced Mycroft to his new baby brother Sherlock. Mycroft, itching to hug the baby, absent-mindedly discarded his baby care book atop the bed and reached out for contact. He could almost sense Vera’s prickled irritation behind him upon witnessing that he was, in fact, capable of wanting physical contact.

“Be careful, Mycroft. He is very little,” warned Mummy.

At the sound of her quiet voice, Father turned around from the window to watch the union of brothers. Mycroft reached out for little Sherlock and lifted him in his arms. For a moment the older brother could only gaze in awe at how small and cherubic his brother is, and how much he already loved him with all his heart.

“Hello, Sherlock,” Mycroft whispered.

The baby blinked slowly.

“I am your older brother. I do hope we can be friends.”

Sherlock pouted his little baby lips slightly.

“I have been very excited to have a little brother. Are you excited for an older brother?” Mycroft asked, a hint of caution lacing his voice.

Sherlock’s little fingers reached for Mycroft’s uppermost hand and gripped one of his fingers tightly. Mycroft beamed and pulled Sherlock even closer.

 

He did not want to allow Sherlock to let go of his finger, and it was at that moment that small seven-year-old Mycroft vowed that he would love and protect his baby brother at all costs.

 

* * *

   

Seven years later, Mycroft was fourteen years old. Puberty had so far treated him fairly well despite softening him slightly round the middle. He was constantly studying hard and had mastered the art of manipulation. Mycroft had been nine when he realised the advantages of working to his full potential, and ten when he realised that he could achieve the same results with a clever word and a certain look. And yet, he could not bring himself to cease working and studying. If anything, it kept him entertained. Sherlock was quite different.

 

Seven years later, Sherlock was seven years old. He was the same age that Mycroft had been when they met, and it was at this point that their similarities and differences were most accentuated. Where Mycroft was cool and relaxed, Sherlock was hyperactive and exhausting. Where Mycroft could entertain himself with quiet intellectual pursuits, Sherlock preferred the extremely noisy hands-on approach, particularly those that resulted in destruction in one way or another. Despite this, they maintained thick as thieves. The two brothers were often left to entertain themselves as a result of Father’s business calls, and Mummy’s fragile nerves that rendered her bedridden for days at a time; and God knows where Vera slipped away to for hours at a time. Mycroft knew that he could easily deduce her secret location in a mere few seconds, but elected to focus on more worthwhile activities to pass his time. Sherlock had grown up under Mycroft’s wing and neither boy would have had it any other way.

 

* * *

  

Mycroft sat at his desk by the window, alternating between writing a few lines of an essay and gazing out towards the night storm. Every so often there would be a flash of lightning quickly followed by a rolling clap of thunder. He loved working through thunderstorms. Although he knew it was an extremely childish fantasy, Mycroft took secret solace in pretending the power of the storm was reflective of the power that he may one day have. One particularly loud crash of thunder rattled the window panes and made Mycroft jump slightly, wobbling the formation of the word he had been writing at that second. He scowled under his breath and considered starting over – Mycroft Holmes was not known for imperfection. The focus on the paper had consumed his mind to the extent that Mycroft never noticed the quiet click of the door handle behind him.

 

This lack of observation meant that Mycroft was surprised for the second time in a minute when small hands grasped at his cotton pyjama shirt, tugging lightly. He looked down to see an unruly mop of black hair looking towards the floor. Though Mycroft did not doubt that Sherlock would have a growth spurt when he gets older just like he did, at seven years old he was small for his age. Sherlock’s left hand was wrapped up in his security blanket that trailed around behind him at night and times of stress, while his right remained clenched in Mycroft’s shirt. It was moments like these that Mycroft treasured – the destructive exterior was stripped away to reveal the true nervous innocence that was Sherlock.

“What’s wrong, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked quietly, putting down his pen and hoisting his little brother up onto his lap.

Sherlock immediately curled up tightly and pressed his head against Mycroft’s soft chest. Mycroft wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s tiny body.

“Scared,” Sherlock whispered in reply.

“Do you remember what I told you about storms?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Nothing to be afraid of then.”

“Still scared,” the younger boy murmured.

As if on cue, there was another lightning flash and a crack of thunder, causing Sherlock to curl up even tighter than Mycroft thought to be possible and whimper slightly.

“Ssshh, little brother,” Mycroft comforted as he ran one hand through Sherlock’s curls. “How will you ever be a pirate if a storm scares you? The sea suffers worse storms than this.”

“Then I shall not be a pirate,” Sherlock retorted, though it was fear and sadness that powered his words.

“No, the world needs a good pirate. You will just have to face your fears.”

“Not tonight.”

“Not tonight,” Mycroft agreed.

 

They sat together at Mycroft’s desk chair for a comfortable number of minutes listening to the rain patter down onto the roof shingles. Every now and then Sherlock would flinch at a roll of thunder and hold his security blanket tighter, and Mycroft would hug him closer, resting his cheek against the black curls.

“What are we going to do tomorrow?” Mycroft whispered into Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock shrugged in reply.

“If we wake up early, we can look for snails in the garden.”

“Snails like it when it has rained,” Sherlock murmured.

“I know. Maybe you should try to be like a snail.”

“I don’t want to be a snail, Mycroft,” came the insistent reply.

“What insect would you be?”

“Perhaps a bee..."

Mycroft knew the explanation was about to follow. Sherlock had sat up on his lap now, blanket still in hand, thunderstorm long forgotten. There was a spark of excitement in the small boy’s eyes.

"But bees work together with many, many other bees to get things done. I prefer working alone. Maybe a lone bee? Mycroft, did you know that bees use dance to communicate? Father’s insect encyclopaedia told me that. They also make their own body heat by vibrating because they are cold-blooded. And because of this, cold rain has the ability to stop them from flying when it reduces their body temperature. That means bees don’t like rain, Mycroft!”

“My word, you are practically one with a bee,” Mycroft joked softly.

Sherlock elbowed him lightly. “What insect would you be?”

“I haven’t thought about it.”

“Well, let’s think about it,” said Sherlock decisively.

Mycroft leant back ever so slightly and watched the small boy’s face frown in thought. He knew they would be talking about insects for the rest of the evening. The many years since Sherlock had learnt to talk had taught Mycroft that it was important to allow him to recite every piece of information he had in his brain regarding a subject until he was well and truly finished. It made Sherlock happy and Mycroft tended to enjoy listening to him excitedly report back on his findings.

“You would be a slug,” smirked Sherlock, as he poked Mycroft’s plump midsection.

Mycroft didn’t let the embarrassment show on his face. He knew that Sherlock did not mean for it to be unkind and so continued the conversation as if the comment had not unsettled him in the slightest. “Do I not do even a little bit more work than a slug?” he challenged.

“Alright, not a slug then.” – More frowning and thinking – “Maybe a wasp.”

“A wasp?” Mycroft asked, genuinely curious.

“I think you’re a wasp,” Sherlock decided. “A solitary wasp, not a social one.”

Mycroft couldn’t help but chuckle slightly.

“Solitary wasps are coloured nicely, and you dress nicely. They also only use their venom to hunt, not in defence. It’s like you using your words to get your way” – Mycroft smiled – “and most people have a fear of wasps which is silly because wasps are actually very good for humans. They prey on a lot of our pests. So you’re a solitary wasp, Mycroft.”

“So I am. Who would have thought that I’d have so much in common?”

“Can the wasps and the bees be friends?” asked Sherlock through a yawn.

Mycroft took advantage of the display of sleepiness and stood up from the desk chair with Sherlock in his arms. He set him down in the bed and tucked him under the blankets before crawling in beside him. Sherlock turned to face his brother and curled up as close as possible to him. Mycroft placed one arm around the smaller boy and held him tight.

“The wasps and the bees can most definitely be friends,” he answered.

Sherlock smiled sleepily and pressed his cheek against Mycroft’s chest. “Good.”


	2. Chapter 2

There was nothing like a cool Spring day to provide the perfect atmosphere for sitting and reading. Well, that’s how Mycroft thought of it. Sherlock thought that there was nothing like a cool Spring day to provide the perfect atmosphere for running up and down through the vineyards of the Estate checking each individual leaf for any signs of decay. Mycroft had recently purchased Sherlock a beginner’s microscope (“a late birthday present,” he had explained) and Sherlock had since examined everything he could get his hands on up close. This, however, included his dinner that night and a number of Mycroft’s possessions. Mycroft drew the line when he found Sherlock trying to carefully decant his most expensive ink onto a small microscope slide. The end result was messy to say the least. Now Sherlock was restricted to products that could not be spilt or make a mess. So leaves were to be the next examined item. Not any old leaves though – ordinary leaves were boring. Interesting leaves meant evidence of parasitic decay or plant rot.

 

Mycroft sat beneath his favourite pagoda in the garden adorned with vibrant green vines and plush periwinkle blue cushions. He was vaguely aware of Sherlock’s presence in the vineyards but ultimately he was far more fascinated by the collection of critiques of democracies throughout history that he found on his father’s bookshelf. He had rolled up his sleeves and propped his legs up in front of him as he half-reclined across the seat. It was the image of perfect relaxation, and lasted no more than a minute before Mycroft heard the untimely crunch of dirt beneath a small body and a quiet wail of pain. Sighing, he stood up and bookmarked his page before hurrying towards the vineyards to analyse the damage.

 

The scene of the crime was easy enough to interpret. Scuff marks around an unattended exposed root and a small snivelling child on the ground clutching a bloody knee. Clear as crystal cause and effect.

“I did warn you not to run,” Mycroft stated matter-of-factly.

Sherlock wiped his nose with the back of his hand, making Mycroft blink and grimace. “You did not,” the boy insisted.

“You didn’t listen.”

Silence fell between them as they both glared at each other more so out of childish play than genuine anger.

“Are you going to help me up?” Sherlock asked after the moment.

“Do you need it?” Mycroft countered.

“Yes,” he answered petulantly.

Sighing melodramatically in such a way that made Sherlock smile despite his best efforts not to, Mycroft held out his hand to him. Sherlock’s eyes flashed with unmistakeable sinister intent and before Mycroft could anticipate the attack coming for him, Sherlock had rubbed his hands quickly in the dirt around him and clasped them around Mycroft’s pristine outstretched hand.

Mycroft yelped in horror – a noise of such lack of control that Sherlock never expected to hear slip from his brother’s lips. Mycroft immediately dropped the younger boy’s hand, cursed at him, and swiftly turned on his heel and stalked off back towards the house.

Sherlock remained sitting on the ground, knee stinging, and dignity stinging, as he realised that perhaps his playing around had not been as playful on Mycroft’s part.

 

* * *

  

Mycroft made it to the house in record time after electing to ignore his book sitting patiently under the pagoda. He had to wash his hands before he did anything else and before the contamination could spread. In fact, perhaps it would be safer to just take a shower. He locked the bathroom door behind him and gave his hands an initial wash to ensure at least a hint of cleanliness before he started touching his clothes, then he washed down the lock that he had touched just to be sure. He stripped out of his silk shirt and trousers (ignoring the uncomfortable red marks imprinted on his skin from the waistband) and folded them pristinely, carefully placing them on top of the closed toilet seat.

 

When he was completely undressed Mycroft turned on the shower and turned it up to be as hot as his skin could take. He grasped the nail brush that he kept hidden at the back of his drawer in the bathroom cabinet – behind the dental floss, nail clippers, and the small box laxative tablets – tightly in his right hand and stepped under the water. He quickly got to work.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock hovered outside Mycroft’s bedroom door, hands twisting nervously around his blanket. He had been standing there for fifteen minutes by now and was still unsure whether he should knock. Sherlock had not seen Mycroft since he stormed away from the vineyards and he wanted to apologise. He truly didn’t mean to upset Mycroft. In fact, nothing pained him more than knowing that he was the one making Mycroft hurt as much as he did. It was always Sherlock’s fault.

Sherlock had cleaned himself up since the incident and dressed himself in his nicest cotton pyjamas. He wanted to impress his older brother, fix up his mistakes from earlier. And yet, he remained hovering just outside the door.

 

“I know you’re there, Sherlock,” came a soft voice from inside the bedroom. “You are allowed to come in.”

Sherlock allowed himself to have one last nervous wring of his blanket before slowly opening the door and easing through the small gap he made. He closed the door behind him because he knew it made Mycroft more comfortable. Mycroft was sitting on his bed reading a book; the title of which Sherlock was sure was in another language. Sherlock didn’t step any further into the bedroom. Mycroft sighed and put down his book. He moved his hands to be clasped together in his lap. Sherlock deliberately avoided looking at the red skin that had cracked and bled ever so slightly in some places.

“I’m really sorry,” Sherlock whispered.

“It’s not the first time we have had a dispute,” Mycroft pointed out.

“But this one hurt you.”

The ghost of a frown crossed Mycroft’s face as he shook his head slowly. “I’m fine.”

“Why do you do it?” Sherlock asked innocently, finally mustering the courage to walk around the room and observe all of Mycroft’s possessions. He truly had the most interesting things.

“Why do I do what?” came the reply, as eloquently enunciated as the rest of Mycroft’s words.

“Hurt yourself in the shower.”

Mycroft’s gaze flickered down to his hands. The sight was not abnormal to him but he hoped Sherlock hadn’t noticed. It was a hope grounded in foolishness of course. Sherlock was his brother – of course he noticed. A small, weary sigh escaped his lips.

“Do you have nerves like Mummy?” Sherlock continued, “Because you’re only fourteen and Mummy says her nerves play up because she is old. You’re not old, Mycroft.”

“I know. And no, I don’t have nerves like Mummy.”

Mycroft said no more so neither did Sherlock.

Bare feet pattered against the hard wood floor as Sherlock crossed the room and tugged at the duvet. Mycroft pulled it up and made room for him to crawl in, blanket and all. Sherlock sat between Mycroft’s legs with the back of his head against his brother’s chest and wriggled slightly to get perfectly comfortable. Mycroft absent-mindedly brought one of his hands up to stroke Sherlock’s dark hair.

“Why are you sad?” Sherlock asked suddenly.

Mycroft’s hand froze in Sherlock’s curls. “Pardon?”

The word uttered was much more a confused reflex than a genuine question. Both brothers hated unnecessary repetition. Sherlock leant forward and turned around to look at his brother with his intense grey eyes. He did not repeat himself.

“I just… uh…” Mycroft stammered with a dry mouth

Sherlock’s brows furrowed as he watched Mycroft, with all his infinite wisdom, appear uncomfortably stumped for the first time.

“What is school like, Mycroft?” asked Sherlock.

Mycroft wasn’t sure if he had changed the topic deliberately or simply because he became bored of the last one. “School keeps the mind occupied… sometimes.”

“You always get better work than my school gives.”

“Mm, I don’t doubt that. The perks of being old,” Mycroft mused.

“Will you go to university soon?”

Sherlock only just caught the muttered reply of, “not soon enough.”

“Is school what makes you sad?” Sherlock questioned quietly, diverting his gaze away from Mycroft’s eyes.

_Lord, he went full circle_  was what Mycroft thought. “No, Sherlock,” was what he ended up saying.

Sherlock carefully held one of Mycroft’s raw hands in his own small fingers and examined it closely. He had no intention to actively look for something; it was the look itself that was all he wanted.

“It’s not important, Sherlock,” said Mycroft. “I know what I am doing.”

Sherlock had no reason to doubt Mycroft before and Mycroft had never made an effort to lie to him before, so both the hand and the subject were dropped.

 

When Mycroft interpreted the conversation as having ceased completely he picked up his book again and continued to read, hoisting his arms at a slightly uncomfortable height in order to keep the book above his younger brother’s head. Said brother had curled up all his limbs and was now leaning predominantly on Mycroft’s chest breathing steadily. Mycroft couldn’t determine whether or not Sherlock was actually asleep, but he felt it would be safer (and politer) to stay still regardless of Sherlock’s state of consciousness. Not a minute later, Mycroft was informed that Sherlock was, in fact, awake – though just barely – by a sleepy voice breathing, “can we go into town tomorrow?”

Mycroft looked down at the small head against him. “Do you require something from town?” he asked.

There was a weary shrug of narrow shoulders.

“Okay. We can walk down tomorrow morning,” Mycroft obliged.

“Good.”

Silence settled once more for a brief moment. Sherlock’s breathing slowed again and Mycroft was almost sure that he had fallen asleep this time. That was until he heard the next sentence escape his brother’s lips.

“I love you, Mycroft.”

A small, affectionate smile crept over Mycroft’s face as his cheeks warmed ever so slightly. He placed his book down on his bedside table and wrapped his arms around Sherlock in a protective embrace. Mycroft kissed Sherlock lightly on the top of his head and whispered back, “I love you too, Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out I'm a sucker for Obsessive-Compulsive Mycroft; though it can be read as him just being overly clean, which is characteristic of him. You can sort of see the hidden broken part of him now. I have a whole lot of sympathy for Mycroft because I think he's quite sad and lonely beneath the crisp exterior. Anyway, I'm rambling.
> 
> I think future chapters will be longer now - I just wanted to get the story rolling - so updates might take a bit longer. In other words: don't worry, the chapters are coming.
> 
> To those of you who celebrate it, I hope you have a very happy Easter :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
> I apologise for the long wait for this chapter. School returned and I got pretty busy, but now I'm on holidays so I am aiming to have at least one more chapter up before next term. I graduate in two and a bit months anyway so I promise the maximum wait will only be that long. 
> 
> As usual, I welcome any advice.  
> Hope you enjoy!

Mycroft’s eyes initially eased open at the feeling of two small hands pushing at his body, and then blinked wide open, if not squinting, as he caught a glimpse of the morning sun streaming through his window.

“Come _on_ , Mycroft!” Sherlock whined with another shove.

“Sherlock?” he acknowledged groggily.

“No, it’s Gregor Mendel. Come look at my peas,” the younger boy scowled sarcastically.

“The humour really doesn’t suit you,” Mycroft said, sitting up in his bed.

“And sleep doesn’t suit you. Let’s _go_!”

“Go?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and glared at his older brother. “You said we could go to town!”

Mycroft thought about it for a fraction of a second and then sighed a long-suffering breath. “I did, didn’t I?” he confirmed.

“Yes you did, and now you are taking too long!”

The older brother finally started shifting himself out of bed, being sure to take much more time than necessary just to see the irritation flash across Sherlock’s face. He made his bed and slipped out of his pyjamas, folding them neatly and placing them centred on his duvet. He was no longer trying to be slow – he was just carrying out his morning routine. Sherlock glared at him and tapped his foot.

“It has to be done,” explained Mycroft.

He pulled on some casual slacks and a nice button down, then tucked in the shirt and pulled on a waistcoat. The morning was warm and did not warrant a jacket. Mycroft noticed that Sherlock was wearing shorts and a short-sleeve shirt, looking altogether innocent and appropriately child-like. Or, he would, had he not been glaring at the thought of all the potential time being wasted.

“Have you eaten breakfast?” Mycroft asked.

“Boring,” came the reply.

Mycroft gave his brother a look and instructed him that they would not be going anywhere until he consumed some form of sustenance.

Sherlock gave his brother a look and reluctantly agreed to have breakfast if not just to get out because they were _wasting time_.

 

The two brothers sat across from each other at the table in the kitchen and a comfortable silence had settled in the room, minus the light squelching noise that Sherlock was making by tapping his spoon on the surface of his warm porridge. Mycroft sipped black coffee and eyed the spoon with vague irritation.

Breakfasts were always the same in the Holmes household. Mycroft and Sherlock made their way downstairs, neither ever feeling too partial to breakfast but one knowing its benefits. One the days that Father was not away on business he would come downstairs, make himself a coffee, and return upstairs. He would greet his sons while waiting for beans to grind but he seldom said anything else. Similarly, if Vera was present she too would make herself a quick breakfast. She would eye Mycroft cautiously and then glance over to Sherlock, unsure of what she was to do, if anything. They were both far too old for a nanny but her duties were maintained for one reason or another. Mycroft made sure to dismiss her quickly every morning. Mummy was rarely seen at breakfast at all because she slept late.

Eventually Sherlock managed half of his porridge, which Mycroft deemed sufficient as he drained the last of his second cup of coffee. The younger brother leapt from his seat and grasped his older brother’s hand, exclaiming excitedly that they were “setting off now” to no one in particular. 

 

The road to the village was cool and pleasant beneath the shade of old trees and speckled with patches of sunlight filtering through gaps in the foliage. Sherlock was rambling away about something that had recently caught his attention while Mycroft thought to himself as he strolled casually, hands in pockets. He thought what would happen when he had to return to school – although only boarding during the week, Sherlock often grew to become destructively weary waiting each weekend that Mycroft returned. He sighed and gazed towards the young boy who was some paces ahead of him collecting twigs and leaves that surely had some common factor in Sherlock’s mind. Mycroft knew all too well that the parenting duties should not be on his shoulders, but who else was there to do the job just as Sherlock needed?

“Why are you collecting those, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock stopped and turned to him saying, “experiment.”

“Of course. Will you elaborate?”

“Maybe sometime.”

Mycroft scolded himself for asking a question that could so easily warrant no answer. He changed his tone. “What about when we reach shops? What will you do then?”

Sherlock shrugged and carried on gathering various specimens in his small hands.

Soon the village was in sight, though distant and still a generous walk. Sherlock was tiring of the idea already and was looking upwards at the large trees overhead.

“Mycroft?”

“Mm,” Mycroft answered.

“Do you think I can climb a tree?”

“You possibly possess the motor skills, but I would really prefer it if you didn’t.”

“Didn’t possess motor skills?”

“Didn’t climb a tree, Sherlock,” he specified with a sigh.

Sherlock harrumphed and went quiet. Mycroft eyed him from the side and was surprised when Sherlock’s head snapped back towards him so quickly.

“What if I’m really, _really_ careful?” Sherlock argued.

“No.”

“What if there are really nice leaves up there?”

“They probably want to stay up there.”

“I’ll only be quick.”

Mycroft rounded and stared at Sherlock, who stared back.

“Fine.”

Sherlock’s eyes twinkled.

“I am going to continue and buy a textbook, and when I come back we are going home. Understood?”

The younger boy nodded excitedly and discarded all his twigs and leaves without a care. “Oh, _thank you_ Mycroft!” he said as he looked around to determine which tree would be most satisfying to scale.

Mycroft took a breath and continued down the road.

 

Upon reaching the bookstore, Mycroft became very aware that he had no idea what textbook he had intended to purchase. They had only started this bloody walk because Sherlock wanted to. He closed his eyes for a moment to keep himself calm and entered the shop, pushing his weight onto the door instead of using the handle. A bell tinkled above his head but none of the customers nor the shopkeeper turned their head. He approached the display labelled ‘Language’ and half-heartedly scanned the assortment of books with vague intentions of finding a Latin-English dictionary. He already owned an edition but he had left it in his dormitory back at school, much to his irritation. Through the gaps in the shelf Mycroft suddenly noticed another boy looking at him on the other side. He narrowed his eyes ever so lightly as the boy’s mouth cracked into a crooked grin.

_About my age, the scattering of acne in such an arrangement that could only be caused by adolescent hormones. Not too stupid as he is looking for books in the Arts genre. Smokes, and smokes often. Teeth showing evidence of initial stages of staining. Wears glasses most of the time but today decided to wear contact lenses. Not enjoying the feel of them judging by the way he blinks many times in succession and then not at all for as long as possible. Gay. Most definitely gay. Has an interest in me?_

“Matthew,” the boy said quietly.

“Not interested,” replied Mycroft.

The boy smiled wider. _How tedious, he thinks I’m lying. ‘Playing hard to get’, so they say._

“Okay, language boy,” he said with a laugh.

Mycroft’s eyes sharpen with every second. He could tear this boy to shreds at any moment with ease. Said boy was now looking down, presumably towards his hands. He passed a small piece of paper over to Mycroft with some digits pencilled on it while saying, “if you ever become interested, just call.”

“I won’t be interested any time soon, I can assure you. And stop seeing your current boyfriend who is evidently not satisfying you one iota if you are so desperate that you are carrying round pieces of paper with your number on.”

Matthew paled and his smile dropped. Mycroft had already turned and left, not caring enough to continue seeking out his dictionary.

_Obvious, too bloody obvious. A fresh love bite on his neck and a hint of hesitance mixed with desperation in his laugh? Currently dating. The phone number is written in pencil though there was no sound of him using a pencil, nor the sound of the paper being ripped from a larger piece as the edges indicate. Pathetic attempt, really._

Mycroft was pacing away from the village to meet Sherlock back at the trees when the voice in his head made an afterthought.

 _But he made the pathetic attempt on_ you _._

 

The thought intrigued Mycroft all the way back to the spot where he had left Sherlock to his own tree-climbing devices. Why him? Was Mycroft pleased or put off by the attempt? Though he always preferred being alone and his independence was unwavering, he did occasionally long for some kind of company that wasn’t Sherlock. Now, looking around at the neighbouring trees in confusion, Mycroft longed for nothing _but_ the company of Sherlock.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft called, trying his hardest to cover the worry in his voice. “SHERLOCK?” he shouted.

There was no reply and Mycroft’s stomach dropped.

_Oh god, oh god, oh god._


End file.
